Red vs You
by Snazzy Suit
Summary: Only one soldier survived the horrifying incident at Outpost 17-B: Private Walter Henderson. The Director lied about the Outpost being a total loss, that much is obvious, but did he have the Simulation Trooper hidden to keep the secret or did he...make his report the truth? This is the story of Walter: a man lucky enough to survive, only to become a loose end.


For more story information, feel free to check the details provided on my profile page.

**Disclaimer:** I do _not_ own Halo or Red vs. Blue. (Durr)

* * *

"Captain Rivas, sir? You're needed at the crash site."

A soldier clad in grey, standard Mark VI armor looks up at the sound of his name. He turns slightly, the gold visor of his ODST helmet reflecting the image of a subordinate with an appearance similar to his own.

"Yes…of course." The Captain acknowledges in a surprisingly distant manner, not at all like his usual collective self. "I'm on my way…"

Despite his words, Rivas does not make a move to leave the grim scenery of the simulation trooper base. The soldier revolves so he is once again facing the dull, metallic wall of this fortress turned tomb, regarding the structure as if in a trance. A pregnant pause leaves the Captain's subordinate to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot, the foreboding room and his superior's unresponsive behavior making him uneasy.

"S-sir?"

The Captain doesn't respond. Instead, he reaches out to the wall before him, running a hand over the ominous carving that held his attention. Rivas's fingers explore the jagged grooves, as a blind man would decipher brail. After a moment of searching, the soldier withdraws his hand, examining the very tips of his gloved phalanges. He rubs the ends of his index finger and thumb together before slowly pulling them back apart, revealing a dark, congealing substance. The black fabric covering the Captain's hands made it difficult to distinguish the fluid's color, but with the horrific backdrop of this gloomy space, it wasn't hard to guess the identity of the coagulating liquid.

The subordinate soldier looks from his superior's hand to the only clue left by the assailant, or, should he say, _assailants_, behind this great tragedy. He and the other soldiers must have reviewed the engraved message a dozen times, but they were no closer to figuring out its significance. Who did this? _Why_ did they do it? And just who the _hell_ are they?

"I don't know."

Captain Rivas' voice causes the subordinate to jolt. He had not been aware that he had verbalized these questions aloud.

"But I doubt we're going to find any of those answers here." Rivas continues, ignoring the surprised reaction of the other soldier. He turns to the latter, posture straightening with a regained composure. "I want you to meet with the squad currently searching Blue Base. Report back to me at the crash site with any valuable information on their discoveries. Do you understand?"

The flustered subordinate stammers a confirmation of his orders, quickly excusing himself as he departs from the gruesome space. Once the soldier is out of sight, the Captain spares the room one last visual sweep.

When Rivas first entered the base, he had prepared himself for the worse. The mutilated bodies and barricades lining the small fortress's perimeter were surely a warning of what lay within this tomb of concrete and steel. While the Captain had braced himself for gore strewn walls and a floor littered with corpses, he was instead met with a surprisingly less messy scene. Yes, there were bodies, and yes, there was _plenty_ of blood, but nowhere near the horror movie level he had been expecting. And yet, somehow what he had found was far more unsettling than what his imagination had concocted.

Every entrance to the base's inner belly was heavily barricaded, save for one that had been destroyed by previous Recovery agents. The obstructions were hastily placed and, judging by the large quantity of vital supplies used in their construction, made out of pure desperation. Rivas could only wonder what external threat could have driven the simulation troopers to so fervently seal themselves away. Whatever it was, it couldn't have been responsible for the deaths of the soldiers lying at the Captain's feet, not directly anyway. After all, as he previously noted, this room had been completely closed off. Upon closer examination of the deceased, the grey clad soldier had noticed a disturbing pattern.

Several of the bodies lied opposite of each other, weapons in hand, their position upon death suggesting an exchange of fire between comrades. A few other cadavers were crammed in the corners next to the barricades, their bodies frozen by rigor mortis in unsettling poses like morbid mannequins. They had been scrambling over one another in their hysterics, clawing like wild animals at the very blockade erected to protect them, before meeting a horrific end. The last corpse in this museum of death had been the decider of his own fate. His body lay propped against the wall near the foreboding message, slightly slumped to one side, a sizable hole in his helmet-free cranium. The scorch marks around the entrance wound and the laxly clutched M6G Magnum leave no question that this was suicide. Whether the man took this way out through guilt of his own actions or escape from something far worse is unknown, and, without any witnesses, will more than likely remain as such.

Captain Rivas had seen a lot in his time of service, but this…this unnerved him.

The grey armor clad soldier's gaze flickers back to the chilling engraving on the wall, absorbing its cryptic warning a final time before swiftly departing the Red simulation trooper base. He blinks at the sudden brightness of the sun and shudders with each image that dances behind his lids; images of the horror he left behind. One flash in particular makes itself well known to the Captain during his trek to the crash site: the scrawling on the wall. Its jagged edges and messy arrangement had been difficult to discern at first, but once the words came together, they refused to leave Rivas' mind.

_We are the Meta._

* * *

Burned, twisted metal and rubber: the remains of a couple ATVs.

Bullet casings.

Discarded weapons.

Grenades that were never detonated.

Scorch marks from the blast of an unfamiliar weapon.

Two bodies.

This is what Captain Rivas finds upon arriving at the infamous crash site. That, and of course…the _ship_. How disgustingly fitting that the agents sent to uncover the mysterious events that occurred at this outpost would meet their end at its apparent origin, the key word being _apparent_ because _no_ one really knows what happened in the first place. What little information gathered from the surviving video logs and practically nonexistent evidence left by the culprit(s) made this nightmare of a puzzle no easier to solve.

It had all began with the receiving of a recovery beacon; one sent from an agent designated as Recovery Nine, if the Captain recalled correctly. The former and another agent, dubbed Recovery Six, had been sent to investigate an incident at military Outpost 17-B, better known as Valhalla. Like Captain Rivas, when the two arrived at said location, they were met with silence. Nothing but a gentle wind whistling through the sparse trees and the echo of their own footsteps as they made their way to their first point of inspection: Red Base.

Having briefly examined the place himself, Rivas knew the fortress's oceanic backdrop did nothing to take away from the ominous air surrounding the structure, and could only imagine how edgy the Recovery agents must have been when they had to search it on their own.

Especially with what lay inside.

Blue Base, according to the subordinate Captain Rivas had sent to retrieve information, was eerily similar to its Red counterpart. The only real difference was that the blue simulation trooper fortress lacked a carved signature within its walls. That, and there was one extra body. The armor of the deceased was not of the standard issue cobalt like the others, but pitch black. Though it wasn't confirmed, the Captain had a feeling who this person had been. Not personally; no, the description didn't bring to mind anyone in particular, just an affiliation.

A Freelancer.

It wasn't unheard of for agents of their Project to be at the simulation bases. In fact, that's why these Outposts were here; to act as training grounds for the _real_ soldiers. But to find a presumably top Freelancer dead at a place designed for practice?

It didn't bode well, _that's_ for fucking sure.

The chill that had gripped Rivas' spine back at Red Base chooses to return with a vengeance. Mind suddenly blank from the unwelcome feeling, the Captain stares dully at the wreckage before him with unseeing eyes. The cacophony of operating military vehicles, radio feedback, and shouted orders between numerous squads seem unnaturally muted. Quiet, unmoving; the middle-aged man appears to be in a hypnotic state.

"Captain Rivas! We've got something over here!"

The subordinate's call rips the Captain from his daze, causing the latter to shake his head slightly at the abrupt return of his senses. He turns in the direction of the cry's origin point, quickly spotting another soldier waving to gain his attention. The clear urgency of the combatant has Rivas on the move; his pace a near sprint as he makes his way over.

"What is it?" Rivas gasps, more from lingering unease than the sudden physical exertion. "What did you find?"

Had Captain Rivas been of his usual proper mind, he would have surely scolded himself for appearing so frazzled; so unprofessional. He also would have been internally grateful that the subordinate's own anxiety kept the latter from taking note of this reprehensible behavior.

"W-we found…" The soldier trails off, swallowing as he chooses to start over. "There's…a survivor."

* * *

Two small caverns cut through the stone jutting out from the cliff face at the crash site's nose and tail. At one of the caves' openings, a small squad of armored soldiers is seen hovering, clustered nervously as if stationed at the entrance of an angry beast's lair. Captain Rivas swiftly approaches the group, led by the subordinate that had delivered the shocking news. The messenger eventually steps aside—his guidance no longer necessary—allowing the Captain to take point. Rivas easily makes his way through the crowd, only having to shoulder past a few stunned men as most part upon noticing his presence. Line of sight no longer hindered by the other troops, Captain Rivas is able to lay eyes on the survivor for the first time.

Further in the cavern, at the widest opening, sits the hunched form of a red-armored simulation trooper. Though the curled posture and poor lighting make it challenging to tell at first, the Captain is positive the size and build indicate the individual to be male. To confirm this or uncover any other details, however, Rivas would have to get closer. He peers over his shoulder at the nearest subordinate, eyebrows knitting together as a sudden observation proves baffling.

"Why aren't any of you over _there?_" Captain Rivas rumbles, gesturing at the eerily still soldier. "Someone should be checking the victim's condition!"

The grey clad underling jerks back at the inquiry, the critical tone sounding particularly harsh in the enclosed space.

"S-sir! We tried calling out to him when he was first discovered, but there was no response." He stammers, trying to stand straighter. "At first we thought him to be unconscious, but when Carson tried to get closer, he heard a lot of strange muttering." The subordinate turns to the aforementioned, receiving a nod of confirmation.

"He's right Captain Rivas, sir." Carson chooses to continue. "After everything we've seen and heard about what happened here, we suddenly weren't so sure if this guy was a survivor or…"

The soldier doesn't finish, but the unspoken theory none the less echoes through the Captain's mind.

'_The culprit.'_

Rivas looks back at the simulation trooper, eyeing the latter as Carson decides to voice another thought.

"We figured it would be best to contact you before doing anything else."

Captain Rivas grunts in reply. It was obvious the men behind him were scared shitless—who _wouldn't_ be?—they were fairly new recruits after all. Rivas empathized, knowing just how alluring it was to hide behind your CO at the beginning of one's military career. Confidence came with time and experience, something the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed combatants still severely lacked. Given the gravity and foreign nature of the situation, however, he would look the other way; just this once.

The Captain slowly retrieves his M6G Magnum from its holster and spares the squad a quick glance.

"Be at the ready." He commands quietly. "Do _not_ fire unless I give the order. Is that understood?"

Hushed affirmations and verifying nods ripple through the small group, each member silently getting into position. Satisfied, Captain Rivas proceeds into the grotto at a low crouch; his pace slow and footwork deliberate. When he is but two meters from the subject, Rivas pauses as the anticipated mumbling becomes audible. The Captain isn't sure if it's incoherent babble or if he simply isn't close enough to make out the words; either way, the sound is downright _chilling_. He takes a few steps further, unconsciously giving his magnum a gentle squeeze.

"I am Captain Rivas of Project Freelancer." Rivas calls, flinching slightly at how unnaturally loud his voice sounds in the cramped area. "My fellow operatives and I are here to perform an investigation and recover any survivors. Are you in need of immediate medical attention? Can you stand, Private?"

No answer. No movement to indicate the recruit had even heard him.

The Captain draws a weary breath. He internally jokes that the Red Team member's refusal to respond is due to being incorrectly addressed—simulation troopers were apparently _very_ sensitive about rank—but no, Rivas knew the dull, humorless gag held no true ground. The Sergeant found among the dead, crimson-clad soldiers proved that. With limited 'rank' available to the faux combatants, and the Red CO gruesomely accounted for, the man before him couldn't be anything _but_ a Private.

Captain Rivas cautiously nears the stooped survivor, noting that the latter was trembling fiercely; whether it was from the cold or fear, he could not say. The Captain is now but an arm length away, and the huddled form's rambling is still very much unintelligible even at this close proximity. Rivas lowers his guard slightly at the pitiful sight, and, against better judgment, he reaches out to place a hand on the trooper's shoulder.

"Private—?"

"_GET AWAY!_"

The Red simulation soldier whirls around at the contact, right hand knocking the handgun from the surprised Captain's grip. A faint glint coming from the frantic combatant's left hand captures Captain Rivas' attention; eyes widening upon realizing the other man possessed a knife. Not a second later, the Private lunges with murderous intent. Rivas just manages to catch his attacker's wrist, keeping the deadly blade from finding home in one of his armor's weak points. In the Captain's shock, however, he is unable to hold his ground against the sudden force and finds himself painfully smashed against the cavern wall.

"I will _not_ be your puppet." The assailant growls, taking advantage of Rivas' temporary daze. "You hear me you fucking monster?! You will _never_ control _me_ again!"

"P-puppet?" Captain Rivas wheezes, airway hindered by the crimson trooper's right forearm pressing into his neck. "What are you—?"

A rifle's discharge cuts the inquiry short; the loud ricochet of a bullet a mere foot above the entangled duo's heads, causing both men to flinch.

"Cease fire, Goddamnit! _Cease fire!_" The Captain snarls, struggling to twist his head towards his subordinates while simultaneously keeping a firm hold of the knife bearing hand. "I told you not to shoot unless I explicitly _ordered_ it!"

The Private rears back marginally, standard ODST helmet revolving between the pinned Captain and the small squadron at the mouth of the grotto. He seemed…_confused_.

"Listen, son," Rivas croaks, deciding to take a less formal approach, "I don't know what's going on, and I can't imagine what you've been through," he shifts slightly, trying to ease the pressure on his throat. "but we aren't here to hurt you. We're from Project Freelancer, we're here to help. You're safe now."

The simulation trooper tilts his head, perplexed, and Captain Rivas can only picture the quizzical look hidden behind the former's golden visor.

'_Ah. Right. Project Freelancer isn't very well known is it?'_ He sighs quietly, suddenly realizing the issue. _'Now, what was it we go by again?'_

"It's okay." The Captain reassures, finally remembering. "Command sent us."

The ease of the faux soldier's posture is minute at best, but it was progress. His helmet turns to the side ever so slightly; the following silence suggesting contemplation. A moment later, the crimson combatant's head swivels until he is facing Rivas once more.

"Take it off."

Captain Rivas sputters, the request catching him off-guard.

"Excuse me?"

"Your helmet." The Private clarifies, unfazed by the seemingly suggestive command. "Take it off. _Now._"

The Captain stares at the trooper for a pause, silently wondering what the removal of his helmet could possibly prove. Was it a trap? Without the headgear, he would be horribly exposed. That being said, Rivas didn't see any other viable options to escape his predicament unscathed. One wrong move and he would surely incur his captor's wrath. There was no other choice; Captain Rivas would have to comply with the demand.

"Alright," The Captain breathes at last. "but I'm going to need you to withdraw your weapon."

The simulation soldier is rigid at first, hesitant to back down. Then, imperceptibly, he moves the blade wielding hand away. Instead of sheathing the knife, however, the combatant keeps it at the ready; obviously not trusting his prisoner to remain submissive. Rivas sighs at the blatant distrust, but chooses not to address it.

It was a compromise, he supposed.

Right hand no longer having to hold back a potential life ender, Captain Rivas is free to cautiously reach under his mask. Faint, unfastening clicks echo lightly among the stone walls, quickly followed by an abrupt hiss. With much difficulty—seeing as the Captain was only allowed to work with one appendage—the helmet is finally removed.

A bead of sweat trickles down Rivas' jawline, another falling soon after from his dampened salt and pepper hair. The cool air of the enclosure is surprisingly refreshing, but the pleasant sensation is dwarfed by the crushing feeling of vulnerability. Captain Rivas focuses his hazel eyes on the Private's shimmering visor, using the reflective surface to inspect his own features; it was important to make sure his expression remained neutral.

'_What now?'_ The Captain muses.

The silent question is answered a few, tense seconds later when the sole surviving Red Team member hastily retracts his forearm and backs away. Apparently, the prisoner passed whatever bizarre test removing the headgear had been. Rivas stumbles forward, the only appendage keeping him pinned now gone, and gingerly massages his throat. He hated to admit it, but the simulation trooper was surprisingly strong. Captain Rivas hadn't really given this much thought before—keeping himself from being gutted proving _slightly_ more pressing—but the low level combatant shouldn't have been able to overwhelm him so easily, even if he _was_ caught off-guard.

Just what in the world is with this recruit anyway?

A loud clattering derails the Captain's train of thought. He snaps his head up, focus returning to the soldier in question. The dissonance that had alerted Rivas had been the Private dropping a bloody knife—wait, _bloody?_ Alarmed, Captain Rivas quickly inspects the weak points of his armor, fearing the adrenaline rush had prevented him from detecting injury. Finding nothing, he quirks a brow, confused, before mentally berating himself for not concluding the obvious. Worries quelled, the Captain takes the opportunity to get a proper look at the faux trooper.

The survivor's standard issue Mark VI armor is badly scuffed and bears several small dents from the impact of deflected ammunition. A startlingly deep gash mars the chest plate while blast residue and caked mud coat the legs. What disturbs Rivas most about the disheveled man's appearance are the numerous dark crimson splatters; the precious bodily fluid somehow standing out even against the pallet of similar color.

Shortly after Captain Rivas makes these observations, the Private collapses onto his knees; exhausted by the previous spell of exertion. He dully examines his trembling hands, an equally shaky breath of air escaping his lips.

"I'm sorry." The recruit chokes, voice strained. "I was afraid you were infected." He places a hand on his now lowered head. "I had to make sure. I-I'm so _sorry_."

The Captain's shoulders droop at the broken display. He hadn't the slightest clue what the sim-trooper was talking about—what he meant by '_infected'—_but he wasn't about to ask; the topic was bound to be covered in the upcoming debriefing anyway. Harassing the poor bastard now, having him relive the terror so soon, would be both unnecessary and cruel.

"It's okay son." Rivas eventually sighs, his tone about as tired as the other soldier looked. "Everything is going to be okay."

It sounded hollow, rehearsed, and above all, _fake. _The reassurance was a lie; they both knew that. Rescue or not, nothing was okay. Things weren't just going to _magically_ get better. The horror witnessed here wasn't about to be forgotten.

Seeing that the victim of this horrible tragedy was now more or less calm, Captain Rivas deems it appropriate to signal to the nervous troops that the situation was (for lack of a better word) secure. As the Captain places his attention back on the weary combatant, he is vaguely aware that the gesture prompts several men to leave, while a few choose to cautiously enter the cramped cavern. Rivas doesn't wait for their approach, but instead addresses the survivor once more.

"What's your name Private?" He asks, voice soft despite the use of a formal title.

The recipient of the inquiry looks up, his golden visor warping the Captain's reflection.

"Henderson." He replies with a slight waver. "Walter Henderson."

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

And there we have it! The stage is set. Next chapter, Walter learns the true meaning of "What's up 'Doc?" and meets the Counselor for debriefing. *Checks script* Err...something like that. Fak, I dunno.

P.S. I don't know diddly about basic Halo shiz! (Weird for an RvB fan huh?) Thank you for existing Wikipedia! %D

Reviews are always welcome, whether you want to tell me what you like/dislike about the story or critique me as a writer.


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